On the days I dwell in the land of CanDo, just doing things I can do and do do most of the time, my feet slog along, heavily weighted by boring, everyday brown muck.
When I venture into the land of MaybeICan, my feet sink into another kind of gunk: Orangey-brown, chartreuse sludge made from frustration and expectations- overly high and unrealistic- because I’ve spent too many years in the dank, familiar mud of CanDo with minimal exertion and unsurprisingly little progress. This MaybeICan muck has a different composition. Elements I don’t recognize, intimidating me. They don’t respond to my lackadaisical ways. I’m not strolling through the chicken yard happily squishing poop between my toes on my way to Grandma’s anymore. Instead, I'm limping barefoot on a rocky beach with sharp objects hidden in the substrate, just waiting to jab and sting my tender, exposed pink soles. Sometimes, I scream in sudden agony and leave a trail of blood.
Even so, if I pause and squint my eyes just right, I can catch a glimpse of the gorgeous black rocks ahead, the waves that crash and the foam that sprays. That’s where I want to be: Where the muck has disappeared, where the sand glistens and the seagrass waves, calling me to join them, to linger, to bask in the intoxicating space where timeworn rocks and splashing sea are imbued with vitality and renewal.
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